


Building Statues Out of Snow

by Westwardflight



Category: Horrible Histories
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-17
Updated: 2013-03-17
Packaged: 2017-12-05 13:19:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/723735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Westwardflight/pseuds/Westwardflight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>First they are cold, then they are not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Building Statues Out of Snow

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on the HH Anonmeme.

He ducks as Blenkinsop throws another snowball, laughing as he readies his retaliation. With a cry, he charges at Blenkinsop, pelting him with snowballs. Letting his momentum carry him, he leaps at Blenkinsop and they tumble into a snow bank, giggling the whole way down.

Then Maltravers is sitting on top of Blenkinsop, straddling his bony hips, keeping him pinned. The moment stretches around them, longer than either of them expects. Maltravers considers breaking his gaze and looking away, but the impulse fades rapidly as he finds himself clumsily pushing back one of Blenkinsop’s curls that has sprung free from his wooly hat.

Blenkinsop smiles, and Maltravers feels his stomach tighten. He is almost dizzy with the rush of closeness as Blenkinsop rests a hand on his hip.

He leans down, his body acting entirely of its own volition, and kisses Blenkinsop. It is gentle and chaste, but still sends a curl of warmth through his belly.

He pulls back, just enough that they can breathe, though their breath is ragged and raw. Maltravers smiles, and Blenkinsop’s hand tightens just a little on his hip. All he wants is to lean forward and kiss Blenkinsop again. It would be so easy; the space between them is infinitesimally small and shrinking with each passing second. Then Blenkinsop stretches up and kisses the corner of Maltravers’ lips first, before adjusting to kiss him more fully on the mouth.

He doesn’t know who gasps, but the kiss deepens. Despite the snow, it is a slow and languid exploration. He relishes in the slide of their lips, in the warmth and the wetness, and the tiny sounds Blenkinsop is making. And that is how they stay until the cold starts creeping in through their layers and layers of clothes, drawing back them back to the present.

Maltravers rests his head on Blenkinsop's shoulder, just for a moment, then murmurs, "What next, old bean?"

"Next, we go inside and lie by the fire,” Blenkinsop says softly as his fingers curl and uncurl against Maltravers’ hip.

He drops a quick kiss on Blenkinsop’s jaw before straightening up. "That sounds like a splendid plan."

He stands, ignoring his body’s complaints as it loses its source of warmth, and offers his hand to help Blenkinsop up, though Blenkinsop deliberately presses too close as they brush off the excess snow and doesn't move any further away the whole walk back to the house. He only presses closer still as they curl on the rug, warm and comfortable.

He snuggles into Blenkinsop and his beautifully warm body. Blenkinsop is pressing gentle kisses along his jaw, and Maltravers whines quietly. He can feel Blenkinsop smile against his skin.

He cants his hips a little, feeling Blenkinsop’s hardness. The rhythm of the kisses stutters as Maltravers tentatively shifts his hips, grinding against him.

He bites his lip. It is cracked and dry from their time outside, the coppery taste of blood an almost welcome distraction from the tension spiralling in his groin. Even through their trousers, the friction makes his body ache with need.

Blenkinsop kisses the point of his chin, then rolls them so he is on top. His long limbs snake around Maltravers, keeping him safe, keeping him close. Blenkinsop kisses him; it is a slow, wet kiss, that eases the burn of lust to something more manageable even as Maltravers’ fingers scrabble against the rug, seeking some form of purchase, anything to keep him steady against the barrage of sensations. It is desperation that has him gripping the rug, knuckles white, when Blenkinsop next thrusts.

His pulse is pounding in his ears, drowning out Blenkinsop’s stuttering moans.

He comes in a rush, Blenkinsop following close behind.

For a moment, they just stare at each other. Then Maltravers smiles, Blenkinsop laughs, and they kiss. It is all exuberance and joy and celebration that peters out into something slow and comfortable.

They are still curled around each other on the rug, dozing, when Maltravers’ mother gets home. She smiles indulgently at her beautiful boy and his gangly friend, and throws another blanket on top of them.


End file.
